I trailed the guard back into the lab.
The doctor sat with his back to me, eyes fixed on a monitor.
One deep breath. I straightened the collar of my yellow coat and took a long stride forward.
He swivelled toward me.
He's going to scold me—worse, maybe he suspects.
"Have you read Piranha's file?" he asked.
I met his gaze—less hollow under the eyes today, but still sharp.
"Yes. From what I see, he keeps his body and mind taut—like a captive viper ready to strike."
The doctor nodded, turned to the screen.
"Good analysis... but your pastime is ending. I'm forced to sell him soon."
Steven had been right.
He barked a bitter laugh, slammed a fist across the desk and shoved the monitor to the floor; the screen shattered with a crack that bounced off the tiles.
He rose—no wheelchair now, though his steps were stiff.
"I have to sell our greatest trump card because after all these years I still can't crack him!"
His breath rasped. He tore off his lab coat, flung it aside.
"Every test, every therapist, every specialist I could drag in—useless."
He limped closer, clutching his healing side.
"Every torture you can name!"
I kept my face blank. He hates emotion; rumor is he once killed a man for smiling.
He tilted his head, dark eyes glassy.
"I killed his mother in front of him—can you imagine?"
Ice water raced my spine.
"Took two years to track her down," he went on, voice shaking with manic glee. "We primed him first—photos of him as a baby, mommy dearest... Then we dragged her in front of him."
A jagged laugh; it grated against the walls.
"He showed nothing."
Fingers raked his hair; he popped the top button of his shirt, panting.
"We threatened to shoot her—he didn't even blink! Then they hauled the corpse out while he just... watched."
My fist tightened behind my back.
"Yes—we're not saints. But this man—and his operation? Pure monsters."
And that boy? A true Piranha: lethal and emotionless.
I forced my voice flat. "Was his mother the only thing you ever found about his past?"
He shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor.
"And the tattoo?" I pressed.
He waved it off. "Just another mark."
I stepped closer—time to spend a few chips, prove I'm useful.
Still staring at nothing, he said, cold as liquid nitrogen, "Rival organisations—and ours—assign codenames based on an agent's exploits or quirks..."
He stared, waiting.
I took a breath.
"It's obvious why they call him 'Piranha'—top pieces on the board get sea-creature code-names. What interests me is the second alias: 'Viper.'"
I locked onto the doctor's eyes; thick dark lashes threw shadows over those sharp cheekbones, giving him a fox-like air.
"He tattooed the same name on his skin. Those two facts have to connect."
The doctor shrugged.
"So what? It's a tattoo."
Just as the Tailor had warned—Triangle is always a few moves behind Rose.
"If we learn why and how he earned that alias," I said, "it could be our key to a link."
Something lit behind the doctor's gaze. He sprang up, a mocking laugh escaping.
"Sure your IQ is only 'average'?"
He limped toward the door.
"You can go back to your room. I'll dig into the tattoo."
I nodded; he left the lab.
What had Rose built in Ashur? Why is he stronger, more important than the rest of us?
On the way to my quarters I heard steps behind me—Steven's whisper reached my ear:
"What did he want?"
I slowed, murmuring back, "You were right— they're selling Ashur."
Steven's voice stayed low. "Your admin suspects me—could be my neck. Don't forget the last bullet."
My pulse spiked; his scent of cool cedar drifted away.
He passed me, headed for the second lift. Just before stepping in, he turned. I tore my gaze from his blond hair to those blue eyes.
If he said they'd tagged him... it was goodbye.
Mission finished for him—
and that meant Steven was about to die.
I sit on the bunk, staring at the blank white wall in front of me—there isn't even a speck to pull my focus.
That hell-corridor.
Seventeen guards.
A man caged inside bullet-proof glass, sealed in a room inside a lab.
Two doors in, two out.
Three guards posted around the triangular hall.
My thoughts won't settle; they scatter like beads on marble. If Steven were here, he'd help me line them up—he always did. We'd always been together; now he isn't beside me and my mind keeps drifting to him.
Where was I?
Cameras.
Seventeen guards...
What if they've already killed him?
He'd nearly died for me once.
****
I was barely nine, training in the spy camp. Fail the drills, you were punished—or killed. The rumor said zero-rank kids who washed out were tossed into "the Pit," a deep trench with no exit. They died there.
That day was hand-to-hand. I was small and terrified they'd throw me in too. They paired me with a blond boy I'd never seen before—Steven.
Sunlight caught his hair like gold wire. His flat blue eyes looked crystalline. Taller, twice my weight. I thought I was finished.
The bout started. Somehow I kept hitting him—fists to stomach, kicks to ribs, a punch to his cheek. Power rushed through me. He collapsed and didn't rise. Instructors dragged him off the ring.
I wiped dusty hands on my shorts, grinning while the other B-group kids stared.
Days later I saw the same blond boy again, neck swathed in bandages. They'd burned him—his punishment. I still thought he deserved it... until I watched him destroy every opponent afterward, topping the rankings with ease.
Later I learned he'd thrown our match on purpose.
"I didn't want them to burn you," he explained.
"Your skin is too nice."
Steven liked me—even though liking was a crime in that place.
Yet he liked me all the same.